Photographical evidence
by I'm Nova
Summary: Molly Hooper is a professional at pining. Which is why she can't stand when Sherlock makes the same choice, when John is obviously is waiting for just a word. Obviously, an intervention is in order.


_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. If you got used to my monthly oneshots participating to Tumblr challenges, this is my warning that I'll have to give it a miss in November. Nanowrimo plot bunny bit. A big bunny. And I've learned not to fight with the Muse._

Photographical evidence

Molly was exhausted. And no, not because a serial killer suddenly haunted London again and she received a new body every three hours. That would have been taxing, sure, but she hadn't become Sherlock's favourite pathologist by caving under pressure (only to his demands, of course, but that was another story).

No, nothing so interesting – oh my god, she would have to start watching her mouth, she had caught the 'violent deaths are so entertaining' bug from the sleuth. In truth, she was emotionally exhausted and – bored. So, so bored. This had to end.

She never (really) considered her own crush on the consulting detective to be a character flaw. Sherlock was gorgeous, and brilliant, and even just being allowed in his general vicinity was a thrill. True, he could be a perfect arsehole and take ruthless advantage of her willingness to please, but bad boys were a staple in romance books for a reason, weren't they?

Until she discovered that the warm core she hoped she could find her way to someday wasn't actually hidden by a wall you could chip away with patience and sheer stubborn affection. In fact, it was more than ready to bubble over… _if_ you were John Watson. Oh well. She clearly needed lessons to develop a gaydar. Anyone willing?

The almost daily spectacle was like a cold shower on her own feelings. Nurturing a hopeless crush of her own was bad enough…but seeing her ice prince pine after his blogger was almost intolerable. Hence, her exhaustion – emotional exhaustion. There was only so far her own empathy could be stretched daily before she snapped. Why do you think she chose to work with people who were certainly beyond help?

The most frustrating thing was that it was obvious to anyone with eyes that, despite all his protestations of heterosexuality, John would have been more than willing if Sherlock actually made a bloody move instead of mooning, paralysed by fear like a teenager. Even she had managed to ask the much more intimidating detective out – well, for coffee, but still – so why wouldn't the bloody world's only consulting detective give John a hint? He couldn't be taking his flatmate at his word, could he? Because if so he really needed to consider changing careers. Had he never heard, "the lady doth protest too much"? Or did he think that it wouldn't apply just because it was a lord, instead? Seriously, men.

An intervention was clearly in order. And nobody else seemed willing to step into the fray. A Halloween party was the most obvious excuse. She invited both of them, as well as a couple of yarders she worked with – Lestrade, of course, but others, too (DI Hopkins wasn't exactly in her list as an excuse to get the boys to come) – and some friends of hers.

She was sure that John would corral Sherlock in, at least to make an appearance. The blogger was always so concerned with politeness. Now, if only he could be bothered using his eyes…Sigh. Never mind. She had a party to plan, and those were always fun, plotting notwithstanding. Sweets, alcohol, a witch hat for Toby, and she really needed to google some appropriate recipes…

Her plan worked like a charm. Sure, the consulting detective looked as if he'd been dragged in expecting to end on the rack from the first second. But generally speaking, there was merriment, Toby received plenty of compliments and pettings and purred up a storm in thanks, and nobody objected when she took out her phone to have some reminders of such a brilliant evening.

And then, there was Leah…it might have been just a tiny bit evil of her, but she did invite Leah on purpose, too. Because she was a flirty, affectionate drunk – or even tipsy. No man at her party was safe from her, even if she had the same ability to focus as an especially hungry butterfly. She chatted John up, too, giggling and smoky-eyed. Not that Watson would take her up on her offer, not with his family history, but…Ready, set – go. Or, flash, as it was. Perfect. Tonight's work was done.

The following day, she texted everyone who'd been at the party, asking if they wanted to be sent the photos, or if they were too ashamed of what they'd done. That alone ensured that John would take the bait, as the former captain would never refuse what could be construed as a dare. Let's see how he reacted to her secret weapon – the snapshot of Sherlock watching John being flirted with. The Hopeless Longing™ look she saw in the mirror every time she so much as thought about the sleuth, for months, only mixed with a heady dose of jealousy. The consulting detective had been a step behind and to the side, to ensure he'd go unnoticed – but that didn't solve anything. Molly pressed send with a smug smile.

John swiped at the photos, smiling at himself. Despite a few moments he could have done without, it had been a fun party – and more crowded than he expected shy Molly to be able to organize. Bit not good of him. Until suddenly, all his cheer went out of the window. This…this had to be doctored, surely. But why would Molly do such a thing to him? Had she figured out his infatuation and decided to mock him with the appearance of what he wished? She was many things, but she wasn't mean. But what if it was true? …Well, there was only one way to discover it, wasn't there?

Sherlock had commandeered John's laptop, "for research" – no more specifics – so his blogger felt completely justified obstructing the man's field of vision with his phone. He didn't say a word. Let the deductions flow, and come what may. If the detective deduced a bad prank – John wasn't sure if he'd be relieved or disappointed.

Instead, Sherlock positively blanched, and then mumbled, eyes still on the two screens in front of him, "You weren't supposed to see."

"Yeah, well, I have, so…look at me, please." For once, John stopped trying to hide. Not that he'd ever done such a good job of it, if Molly sent him this. The sleuth's eyes found on his face only the biggest grin, and the sheer adoration he didn't need to tone down anymore.

"You…aren't angry." It wasn't a question, but it was hesitant all the same.

"Try delighted. Because, you see, even if I don't have the physical evidence, I have been feeling the same for the longest time," John admitted.

"But you aren't gay!" the consulting detective protested.

"Not gay. Bi. And thinking there are much better uses we could put our mouths to than conversation."

This time, Sherlock was only too happy to comply.


End file.
